Small Heroes
by Mikkeneko
Summary: When Duo is captured during a mission and interrogated, he finds help from an unexpected quarter.


  
It wasn't one of my better missions, I can tell you that right from the start. The intelligence I got was crap -- so much so that I wonder now if it had been a set up -- there were four times the opponents I'd been told to expect, the mission objectives went the hell out the window, three-quarters of Deathscythe's functions were blown to shit, and his lucky little pilot was captured and interrogated. All in all I'd had better days, and in my life even the good days aren't very good.  
  
The only difference between interrogation and torture, I guess, is whether the people who are doing it are looking for information or for kicks. If I ever run into those guys again, I'll have to ask them which they were going for, right after I get done blowing them up into pieces small enough that I'm confident not one scrap of their DNA is left on this planet. Just to make sure nobody can clone them back to life, you know.  
  
I'll be the first to say that Treize Khushrenada is one crazy motherfucker, and the world will be a lot better place when he's gone and whatever insane schemes he's cooked up are destroyed. But the man's got brains, and as strange as it feels to admit it, he's right about one thing; men in war need honor or they become... something less than human.   
  
The thugs in that basement were something less than human -- they damn near made me lose anything that was left in me that had faith in humanity. If it hadn't been for -- But I'm getting ahead of myself.  
  
So there I was, in the basement of an OZ research lab, playing Twenty Questions with a set of military goons. So far, they hadn't gotten a single one of mine right, but the night was still young.  
  
The questions were about what you would expect; who was I working for, how many of us were there, who was supplying us, and so on. I didn't have the heart to tell them that each of the Gundam pilots was working independently, that there was no common plan of attack, and that there was no one organization behind us. Well, that and I didn't feel like ratting out Howard and the Sweepers to them.   
  
Still, for all that they asked the right questions, they didn't seem to really care whether I gave them answers or not. They seemed perfectly happy just kicking me around, not particularly fazed by even my best snarky comebacks. It occurred to me that they were waiting on something; what, I didn't know. Orders from on high, maybe. They didn't seem the types to think for themselves.  
  
My suspicions were confirmed when, after a few hours, another player entered the scene. It was an older man, older than most I had seen in the Specials in fact; he had an air about him that practically reeked 'military intelligence.' He wasn't wearing insignia, but I could guess from the unobtrusive little drone that trailed after him that he was a pretty big cheese in these parts.  
  
It was after that things started getting really interesting. He asked a few perfunctory questions, not seeming at all surprised by my refusal to answer. Then he told them to pack up and move. Almost as soon as we had gotten out into the hallway, though, he ordered me blindfolded. I wasn't too bothered; it would make escaping a little more difficult, if I couldn't come up with a layout for the base, but I was getting bored of seeing the same metal corridors and stark white walls anyway.  
  
When we got to wherever the hell we were going, the goons tied me into what felt like a modified dentist's chair and then moved away. Someone stretched my arm out, palm up, and strapped it down so tight I couldn't move. I considered fighting, but, hell, I was already covered in bruises and it wouldn't make much difference in the end, would?  
  
If I'd known what was coming, I sure as hell would have fought harder, but they would have gotten what they wanted eventually anyway. I felt something sharp prick my wrist and cursed silently; drugs were a bitch to fight with. But they could be overcome. For all its centuries of trying, mankind had yet to perfect a "truth serum" and G had trained me to deal with everything that came even remotely close.   
  
They asked me the questions again, and I told them to fuck off, again. It was almost expected. Though I couldn't see, I heard someone moving on my left side, and the hum of heavy machinery switching to life. What I was _not_ expecting was the agony that suddenly scorched through my arm and quickly spread up over my body.  
  
Excuse me. This isn't a particularly pleasant thing for me to remember, you understand. Even to this day I get associative tremors when I think about it. And I don't _get_ tremors, so I'm that says something.  
  
I found out later that it was a chemical imitation of the neural hormone CC27-LX6. Or maybe it was LV6. I couldn't swear by it. It was meant to be mixed into a then-experimental form of nerve gas, which I am now, thanks to my early exposure, immune to. Thank you so very bloody much, OZ. By itself, though, it imitated the neural transmitters that carried pain signals to the brain. Normally, when some part of the body is injured, the local cells send out this chemical to the nerves, which reads it as a pain signal in the brain. Within a few minutes of being directly injected into the bloodstream, though, it was carried to every cell -- and, by intention, every nerve -- in the body.  
  
The real kicker, though, is that the human body naturally has a limited amount of these transmitters. No matter how badly damaged the tissue is, after it's sent out its first wave, the levels drop off. That's the only saving grace to pain, that eventually it dulls.  
  
Not that time. I couldn't see whatever machine they had me hooked up to, but it kept me pumped with that fucking poison pretty much constantly. It was a level of pain which I had never felt before and thank God that I have never experienced again. I honestly felt like I had been shoved into a pot of boiling water. It took all I had just to keep on breathing through it.  
  
But despite anything else you might say about me, Duo Maxwell is one rock-headed, mule-hearted stubborn son of a bitch. Hell, you'd have to be, to get into my line of work. So when that sadist and his thugs asked me the same old questions I gave them the same old answers, just at a higher volume. It was easier to scream defiance than just to scream.  
  
Now, I think they were getting annoyed with me; they hadn't thought that their pet experiment would fail as well. At the least, I heard frustration and irritation in the voice of the ranking guy; the thugs that had brought me here weren't saying anything. I think they might have been made a little uncomfortable by the way things had turned out. That's fine. They can share their uneasy feelings with St. Peter when he calls them up for an explanation.  
  
I admit I sort of lost track of time there, but I think it had been a little under an hour when the commanding guy gave him. Chair legs scraped across the floor as he stood. "I don't think we're going to get anything useful out of him tonight," he announced coolly, and I could have cried with relief.  
  
The drone murmured a dutiful "Yes, sir," and I heard him reach for something.   
  
That's when the commander's voice came again. "Leave it on."  
  
There was a moment of silence, and then a slightly confused, "...sir?"  
  
I could almost hear the malicious smirk on that bastard's face. "I think a night of... persuasion might convince him to be more cooperative in the morning."  
  
I fucking could not believe my ears. Up until then I had thought that there were some depths that human beings honestly could not sink to; me, the king of cynics. But to this day I do not know which of those voices froze my heart more -- the cruel, sadistic voice of the man who gave that order, or the drained and lifeless "Yes, sir," that followed.  
  
I've heard that back when psychological science was first getting off the ground, two or three hundred years ago, some guy got a bunch of people off the street and did an experiment. There'd be one actor in a lab coat, and another in the other room hooked up to some fake wires. Then they'd give them a switchboard them and order them to turn on the switches. Whenever they did, the guy in the other room would scream and pretend to be hurt. But as long as that man in the uniform kept telling them to do it, they'd push the switches all the way to the end of the board.  
  
Human beings are such fucked up little creatures. You don't even have to put them through the military brainwashing machine. Just give them a man in a uniform -- or even pretending to wear one -- and they'll follow like little drones, too fearful of whatever _might_ fall on their heads to step one foot out of line. Then when the consequences come around -- if they ever do -- they can just point their fingers at the uniform and say "They made me do it."  
  
Yeah. We'll see if Jesus buys that excuse.  
  
I don't really like to think about the time I spent in agony in that room. I screamed at them as they left, curses and profanities in every language I knew; I know quite a lot. But I couldn't keep up the defiance forever, and eventually I just screamed, unable to stop myself. After a while I even broke down and begged, told them I gave up, that I would answer any of their questions if they just made it stop.  
  
It wasn't true, of course. But if it had bought me even a few seconds relief, then it would have been worth it. It didn't matter; nobody came even at that, and after a small eternity of pain I realized that I was alone, truly alone. Unguarded, and the irony did not escape me that if only I could get out of my restraints -- they should have been nothing I couldn't handle -- then I would be in the clear. But the humiliating, fucking truth was that I couldn't focus enough to do that. I couldn't move, I couldn't think. I couldn't do anything but writhe in my bonds and try not to scream so much that I cracked my throat.  
  
It was without a doubt the worst pain I had ever felt in my life, and I've been through a lot. I could easily say that I'd rather die than go through it again, if not for the fact that it was a pretty good preview of what Hell will be like, and I'm not in that much of a hurry to get there. Not that I hadn't been trained to withstand torture; G knew perfectly well what a possibility that was. But the techniques and strategies he taught me for dealing with it focused mainly on how to avoid damage, or ways to keep my mind off of letting information slip accidentally. Nothing in my life had prepared me for this... durance.  
  
I don't know how long it was. I may have slipped in and out of consciousness a few times, it didn't seem to make any appreciable difference in the pain level. I wonder now if that commander had any idea what the effects of his new drug were really like, if he expected to find me in the morning alive and sane enough to answer questions. I'd really like to track him down and let him know, first-hand.  
  
But somewhere along the line, fighting to keep myself from slipping down into insanity, it just... stopped. Somewhere in my delirium, I heard a small click, nearby my head, and that was all it took.  
  
I didn't actually notice at first. The drug didn't leave my system immediately, of course. It took a few seconds for me to register that while the pain was still there, it was fading fast; no new chemicals were being pumped into my system. I just lay there, trying to breathe, feeling it _go,_ too stunned and drained with relief to make any kind of action.  
  
Slowly, it occurred to my numbed brain that if it had stopped, there had to be a reason. I'd lost track of time, but I knew it wasn't morning yet; someone else had to turn it off. I turned my head, listening, but couldn't hear anything. "Heero?" I ventured a guess. He was the only one of the pilots who might have come, either to kill me or rescue me, and at the moment I wasn't too sure which would be preferable. "Heero, is that you?"  
  
There was a long moment of silence, and then a new voice spoke, nervous and quavery. "No..."  
  
I thought for a long moment before deciding I didn't know that voice. Someone from the base? I felt shifting movement, and a whiff of the sharp of cleaning supplies hit my nose. The... _janitor?_  
  
"Why?" I asked. I had to keep my words short; my voice wasn't in the best of shape. But I had to know.  
  
There was another long moment of silence, and I heard him shifting around a little bit. "Because..." he blurted out at last, his voice hushed and fearful. "Because it isn't right."  
  
I knew exactly what he was talking about. "Are you going to untie me?" I said quietly, trying not to let the hope make me too eager. I wasn't really looking forward to the prospect of staying here until morning for a repeat performance.  
  
"I... I can't do that." More of those quick, nervous shufflings. "You're... you're a killer."  
  
To this day I'm not sure what he meant when he said that; whether he was afraid that I would kill _him,_ or if he just couldn't accept the thought of letting a killer go free. But at the time I had other things on my mind. My mind raced. After a long moment, I said, "If you won't let me go... then you'll have to turn the machine back on." God, it took a lot of effort to keep my voice steady as I said that. "If it's off when they come in here in the morning, they'll know you did it."  
  
There was no answer, and after several long, painful moments, I heard footsteps. They were hesitant at first, then increasing in speed. He ran away. I don't know what he was thinking, or even if he could get reasoned thought past the fearful nervousness that had clouded his voice. I guess I never will know.  
  
It didn't really matter. Now that my head was clear again, I could start working at my bindings; totally unobserved, it was less than half an hour before I got my arm free. The first thing I did was tear off that damned blindfold. The second thing was to take that thrice-damned needle out of my arm.  
  
Before too long, I was free again, and standing shakily on my own two feet. Maybe the infamous Heero Yuy would have said I should have taken that opportunity to complete the mission, or scope out the base, or do _something_ useful. But that was way out of the question; I could barely stand and walk. My whole body was numb; I think that I'd overloaded it too much to even think about pain right then. Just at that time, I was grateful.  
  
I took one glance at the bank of heavy machinery in the room. It seemed perfectly innocuous; barely a meter from my head had been that 'on' switch. I would have smashed the fucking thing if I could, but instead, I just turned, and stumbled out of the room.  
  
The corridors were deserted. No guards, and no sign of the janitor or whoever it was that had freed me. I never even saw his face.  
  
You know, there was something else in that experiment, back in the day. When the man in the doctor's coat had gone away, leaving orders behind to continue the torture, almost nobody would do it. It's not really a nice thing to think about your own race, that such a small thing as a white lab coat should make such a large difference. It's not really a nice thing to think that, while most people are basically good inside, so few men who are truly sick and sadistic and twisted inside can have such a big effect. But somewhere deep down there, behind the fear and timidity, most people really have a core of good inside them.  
  
I guess maybe that's enough. Enough to keep fighting for.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
~owari~


End file.
